


Welcome to the Friendzone

by Jillian_Bowes, mischiefmanager



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Angst, But only a tiny bit, Dry Humping, First Dates, First Kiss, Fluff, Getting Together, Humor, M/M, Making Out, Normal Yuri-level Angst, Smut, Welcome to the Madness (Yuri!!! on Ice)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-08
Updated: 2017-07-08
Packaged: 2018-11-29 04:55:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11433591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jillian_Bowes/pseuds/Jillian_Bowes, https://archiveofourown.org/users/mischiefmanager/pseuds/mischiefmanager
Summary: “You’re my best friend.”And Yuriswears to Godhe can hear an actual fucking record scratch. Friend.Friend?After the absolute pornography they just recorded on live television?Oh.





	Welcome to the Friendzone

**Author's Note:**

> this was so much fun to write with THE WORLD'S BEST: mischiefmanager :') hope you like it! -JB  
> Jillian_Bowes and I literally met in the comment section of this site, so it seems a natural extension of our friendship that we write a fic together. Hope you enjoy reading it as much as we enjoyed writing it! --mm

_This was so worth the risk,_ Yuri thinks, touching the surface of the ice with his fingertips as the silky material of his shirt glides up his chest to collect around his neck. Otabek looks like a god, like some kind of eternal judge watching him from a throne rather than just standing along the edge of the rink. And he clearly likes what he sees.

He’s never felt this inspired, not during Agape—literally not _ever._ He thought he’d technically understood what Viktor and the piggy were always going on about—talking about inspiration, looking nauseatingly into each other’s eyes—but this. _This_ is fucking inspiration.

Katsudon trying to seduce Viktor with pork or whatever the fuck that was has nothing on Yuri. He’s no coy temptress hiding behind a fan, batting his eyelashes and giggling. He’s a rock star, drenched in hedonistic pleasure—taking whatever he wants from anyone who will give it to him. Which is everyone because who the fuck _wouldn’t_ want a piece of Yuri Plisetsky? He closes his eyes.

 _Come and get me,_ Yuri thinks as he slides toward Otabek, knees spread open wide. And with the way Otabek is looking at him, Yuri thinks he might as well just come over and fuck him on the ice right now in front of everybody. Yuri’s pretty sure he wouldn’t stop him if he tried.

It’s not some abstract concept of eros; Yuri moves his body to what he thinks it would feel like to wrap his legs around Otabek’s back, to the thought of licking up the column of his neck, which Otabek then fucking rolls like the baddest badass of all time—they didn’t discuss _that_ move—to kissing Otabek, off the ice this time. They’re in his hotel room and rapidly shedding clothes as Otabek leads him toward the bed...

He transitions smoothly from jumps to step sequences, and it’s really hard to believe—even to Yuri—that he just composed this routine _yesterday._ He feels like he’s been practicing for it his whole life, probably because in a way he has. This is a true expression of the real Yuri—no more Agape bullshit, no more ballet bullshit. He is invulnerable, sexual, adored.

And then Otabek shoots him, and his high-flying lifestyle has been cut tragically short. Rejected and betrayed by the only one who ever really meant anything, Yuri crumples to the ice. He falls as dramatically as he feels.

But then he gets up to take a bow, and people are screaming, crying, jumping up and down in their seats. Otabek is flushed and panting as though _he_ just skated the routine, _their_ routine, and he skates off toward the rink exit.

Ecstatic and out of breath, Yuri circles the rink, abandoning his discarded jacket because it’s someone else’s problem now. Otabek meets him outside the barrier with his gloves and a bone-crushing hug. He can hear Otabek laughing—actually _laughing—_ right in his ear, and Yuri’s soul briefly leaves his body.

When Yuri pulls back, he frantically wracks his brain for a way to impress upon Otabek how awesome what he just did for him was, and just saying ‘thank you,’ won’t cut it because that’s lame, and Yuri is _never_ lame. He has never once been lame in his life.  After an awkward ten seconds—or maybe an eternity—of just staring at Otabek, he settles for, “That was so fucking cool!” Smooth.

“You definitely proved yourself out there,” Otabek says, still smiling.  “I think you surprised everyone.”

 _Pretty sure that was you,_ Yuri thinks. “Yeah, well.” Yuri can’t help but look away because this conversation is kind of heading into uncharted territory. “It wouldn’t have been as good without you at the end. So, uh—“

“Yuri,” Otabek cuts him off. “Are you trying to _thank_ me?” he asks knowingly.

“No!” Yuri backtracks automatically, crossing his arms. “I just think what you did was… cool. So there.”

Otabek turns serious. “Ah. Well, you know I’ll always be there for you.” At that, Yuri’s heart nearly beats right out of his chest, and he doesn’t think it’s the adrenaline because holy _shit,_ that sounded like it was straight out of a rom com; how is Yuri supposed to top that? He’s about to _hopefully_ come up with something witty, maybe even flirtatious, but—

“You’re my best friend.”

And Yuri _swears to God_ he can hear an actual fucking record scratch. Friend. _Friend?_ After the absolute pornography they just recorded on live television?

Oh.

And he has to say something because with every passing second things are getting weirder and weirder, but what does he say to that? _Oh, I just thought that since you suggested that I shove my fingers into your mouth—and then actually let me do it—that maybe we would be more than fucking friends, but it’s your call man. Call me when you land, or don’t ‘cause we’re JUST. FRIENDS._

Thankfully, Otabek’s coach comes over right then, arms crossed and looking more confused than anything. Confused is better than furious, Yuri supposes, which is more than he can hope for from his own coaches, God help him. The coach gives Otabek some kind of look that must mean “We need to talk,” because Otabek looks back at Yuri apologetically and excuses himself.

Yuri huffs and puts on his skate guards as an afterthought, clomping off to the locker room. He throws himself down onto one of the benches just as his phone starts to vibrate in his bag. Rolling his eyes, he digs for it with every intention of chucking it across the room, but he softens at the caller ID: Grandpa.

He accepts the call, and before Yuri can even greet him, his grandpa asks, “So, you’re dating Otabek Altin now, hm?” _I guess that’s how we say, “Hello I enjoyed your exhibition skate,” now. And oh, thanks for the reminder about Otabek._

“No,” he says, unable to keep the grit from his voice. “We’re just friends.”

His grandpa chuckles on the other end. “Oh, so friends tear each other’s clothes off with their teeth these days?”

“Apparently,” he bristles.

“Now, now, Yurochka. You know I’m just teasing.”

Yuri squeezes his eyes shut against the rage broiling in his stomach and runs a hand down his face. “Yeah, I know,” he says in a softer tone this time. “I just—I don’t know.”

“You don’t know about what?” his grandpa asks as if he already knows the answer.

Yuri pauses and purses his lips, afraid to even go there with this conversation. If he talks about it out loud, it becomes real, and if it becomes real, he’ll have to actually _deal with it._ Yuri is an expert at only dealing with shit he wants to deal with, and he has spent his entire life not dealing with this specific kind of shit. But it is his grandpa, so...

“…Otabek,” he says finally.

“What about him?” his grandpa presses.

“Grandpa…” He doesn’t know if he can even say it.

“You like him.” Yuri can hear the smile in his voice, and maybe a hint of smugness. _Thank you so much,_ he thinks. _How helpful of you to act like a gossipy aunt while I’m rotting in my own personal hell._

“Maybe,” he admits.

“So what are you waiting for? Go get him,” his grandpa says, as if it’s fucking _simple._

“He only sees me as a friend, Grandpa,” he says. “Can we talk about something else?” _Literally anything else._

“Alright. Your exhibition was… interesting,” he chuckles. “Very _you.”_

That gets a little laugh out of Yuri.  “You didn’t hate it then?”

“I would have liked for you to have kept your clothes on, but…” Yuri laughs again, and his grandpa continues. “Who put all of that together?  Was it you?”

“Yeah, I composed it last night,” Yuri states proudly. He conveniently forgets to mention that he couldn’t have done it without Otabek. “Lilia and Yakov are going to kill me when they find me, but I didn’t want to do what they had planned.”

“Ah. So, between then and now, when exactly did you decide you were going to stop going after what you want?”

Okay, ouch. If he wasn’t so offended, he’d be impressed at the sick burn. It sounds like something Yuri would say. Maybe he’s got more of his grandpa in him than he thought. “It’s—!” He stops, sighs. “It’s complicated…”

“More complicated than learning a whole routine in one night? Shows what I know about ice skating.”

“All _right,_ you’ve made your point, Grandpa. You don’t have to keep busting my balls.”

 _“Language,”_ his grandpa admonishes.

Yuri snorts. “Right, well.  I need to prepare for the beating of a lifetime, so…”

The two say their goodbyes and his grandpa wishes him luck—whether for the epic beating or his doomed romantic conquest he isn’t sure. There is one thing he knows for certain: he needs to _do something_ about Otabek, because this can only get worse.

By the time he’s managed to mostly rub all the makeup off of his face (keyword: “mostly”—he’s still distinctly raccoon-eyed, but he decides the smudged look suits him and leaves the liner), Yuri has devised a plan. Subtlety clearly isn’t working here, so he’s going to have to go balls to the wall. He’s going to take Otabek on the date of a lifetime. Something so unmistakably a date that there’s no room to entertain the idea of “hanging out.” He’s going to date the _shit_ out of Otabek. It’s going to be like a date out of a movie. Yuri hates movies about relationships so he has like, two scenes for reference, but he figures he has a rough idea of what to do.

So he ducks out the back, hoodie pulled over his shirt (the same one from the skate because—what the hell, right? Otabek sure looked like he was into it), and manages to evade everybody on his way out: Viktor and the piggy, Lilia, Yakov, his rabid fangirls— _everybody_. He thinks that might be a bigger accomplishment than winning the Grand Prix and starts wondering if weaving invisibly through crowds like a ninja would be the greatest superpower of all time.

Once he gets outside where he can think, he leans against the side of the building and starts planning this date. Dinner is the logical first step. People on dates always go to dinner, right?

Yuri knows like a hundred awesome places to eat in St. Petersburg, but Barcelona is a different story. He’s positive Viktor would have some great ideas, but he’d rather chop off one of his feet than ask Viktor for _date suggestions_. So he phones it in.

“Siri! Best restaurants in Barcelona!”

Siri does not fail him. He is immediately bombarded with an excellent list of five-star establishments with specialties he can’t pronounce and great atmospheres or whatever, and he’s feeling pretty good about this whole idea. Except then he checks the menus and... holy shit. Any one of these places is going to clean out his bank account for sure. No matter what he orders, even though he can’t get drinks.

But this is Otabek. And balls to the wall means _balls to the wall._ He calls the one on the top of the list.

“I want a reservation for tonight,” he tells the posh-sounding girl who picks up. She laughs—an annoying, tinkling little giggle that instantly sets his teeth on edge.

“I see you’ve never dined here before,” she condescends. “Our first availability is in April.”

“I—”

“Unfortunately we’re very busy right now, so if your parents could call back in the morning, that would be a more appropriate time for us to have this conversation.”

Yuri’s stomach plummets. His eye twitches. Red flashes before his eyes.

“Listen,” he says furiously, “I am the Men’s Figure Skating World Champion and I am taking my friend Otabek out on a _date_ tonight. We will be there at 8:30. Put it under Yuri Plisetsky.”

He hangs up before she can reply, confident that he got his message across and that one of those pretentious little tables will be waiting for him and Otabek when they get there.

Next: a movie. He looks through his options at the theater closest to the restaurant. Big no on the sappy period piece. There’s something that looks like it’s about cars and explosions, that’s a possibility. No to musicals, no to documentaries...

Admittedly, Yuri has not actually watched any TV in months because he’s been grinding for the Grand Prix, so he’s never even seen a commercial for any of these movies and is literally picking based on posters alone. He eventually narrows it down to the action flick and a horror movie. It’s one of those horror movies that could be about literally anything—the poster is just some moody, foggy building with a person in front of it. Are there ghosts? Zombies? Vampires? Who knows? Not Yuri. Whatever it is, Yuri’s sure he can handle it. Otabek seems like the kind of guy who would enjoy horror movies, probably. He reserves two seats in the back.

Last step: ask Otabek on the damn date.

Before he can drive himself crazy over ways to track him down without attracting the attention of the general public in the stadium, Yuri’s phone buzzes in his hand with a message from Otabek.

 _Where did you go?_ it reads.

He takes a deep breath, steadies his hands, and types: _outside. meet me?_

Read: 19:30.

Yuri waits anxiously for a response. Jesus, why is he so jittery over this? It’s just Otabek.

 _Because, dummy,_ his subconscious tells him, _if you fuck this up, you’ll lose your only friend and be doomed to a life of watching Viktor and the piggy make out. Forever._

 _World Champion Figure Skater Yuri Plisetsky Landed in the Hospital After Throwing Himself From the Roof of the Skating Rink When He Realizes He’s Been Relegated to a Life of Watching PDA While Never Getting Any Himself—_ that’ll be the headline. Not that he wants that. PDA. He wants affection, just not like...in public. Private affection. Preferably directed primarily below the waist.

Fuck. He’s fucked up. Otabek has left him on “read” and probably gone out clubbing again with some of his much cooler DJ friends. Fucking awesome. Yuri yelled at some random restaurant lady for nothing. “Respond, damn it!” he hisses at his phone.

“Now that’s not very nice,” Otabek says, walking up out of nowhere and scaring the _shit_ out of Yuri.

“God!” Yuri half-yells, shoving Otabek back a step. “You couldn’t just tell me you were coming out here?”

Otabek shrugs, smirking. “I thought it was implied.”

“I don’t _do_ implied,” Yuri grunts.

“Yeah, I’m starting to realize that.”

“Damn right you are.” Okay, enough dicking around. _Ask him already!_ “Otabek,” he starts, voice firm. Otabek raises a brow by means of acknowledgment. “Go out with me. Tonight.” Yuri fights to maintain eye contact—he’s definitely fucked everything up, their friendship is over, and he should just go ahead and start planning his own funeral because he’s never going to find someone he feels this way about ever again, not if he lives to be—

“Yeah, I mean, we’ve gone out every night,” Otabek answers, fucking clueless of Yuri’s intentions because _of course._

“No, like, _out._ To a restaurant. Then a movie.”

“Yes?” For God’s sake, _it’s a_ date _, you sexy idiot._

Now if only he could actually say that out loud. Yuri gives up and deflates. “Yeah. So let’s go. I made a reservation.”

“You got it,” Otabek says, fishing his keys out of his pocket. Not wasting another second, Yuri hauls him by the elbow toward the bike. “In a hurry?” Otabek asks him with interest.

 _Yeah, to leave this country with a boyfriend, so pick up the pace._ Yuri can't say that though, so he changes the subject instead. “We just owned everyone’s ass on the ice,” Yuri says, and Otabek snorts in apparent agreement as he mounts the bike and starts the engine.

Yuri is behind him in an instant, arms wrapped tightly around Otabek’s firm waist. He thinks he could stay like that forever, holding Otabek from behind, feeling the solid weight of Otabek’s back against his chest with the rumble of a motorcycle underneath them.

“Yuri?” he hears Otabek ask him.

 _“Da?”_ he half-breathes.

“Helmet.” Yuri jolts, embarrassed. Otabek is holding the spare out to him (and has been for God knows how long while Yuri was just _holding him_ and fantasizing like an idiot), and Yuri’s hands are off him in an instant. Right. Fucking helmet. Because nothing ruins a date like a cracked skull.

He thrusts it onto his head. Backwards. It falls over his eyes and he scrambles to turn it around the right way, probably destroying his hairstyle in the act. Otabek just sits there patiently, waiting for Yuri to slowly work out the toddler-level task of fastening a helmet onto his head and he considers just hopping off the bike and running away into the night, dignity still somewhat intact.

Vrrrrrrroom. Too late now.

They speed off at once down the street, and Yuri puts his arms back around Otabek. If Otabek notices that his grip is looser than before, he doesn’t call Yuri out on it. Yuri’s jitters come back in full force as he attempts to hold on _casually—_ is there a way to convey interest or lack of interest while trying not to fall off a motorcycle?—so he tries to distract himself by focusing solely on giving Otabek directions to the restaurant as they go.

They’re _fashionably_ late for the reservation, and Yuri struts into the restaurant like he owns it, attempting to maintain some semblance of confidence in front of his sort-of date.

Otabek is looking inquisitively around this pretentious-as-bejeweled-shit establishment when the hostess regards them with what can only be some variation of curious distaste. Yuri belatedly realizes that gold-chain-ripped-shirt-leather-pants is probably not in this place’s dress code.

Oh well. “Yuri Plisetsky,” he shouts at her. “Table for two.”

Her face falls at the familiar name.  _“Oh._ You.”

Yuri narrows his gaze menacingly. “Yeah, _me._ You get us a table or am I going to have to make a Yelp account just to crucify this place?”

The hostess glares back at him, but picks up two menus and walks around the podium anyways. “Right this way.”

She seats them at a table near the back, and Otabek thanks her graciously, probably out of guilt. Yuri can understand that, he supposes. No need for the lady to think that they’re _both_ assholes. “Do you know her or something?” Otabek asks him when she leaves.

Yuri shrugs. “Had to get a table somehow.” Not eager to explain the fact that he had to verbally bite her head off over the phone to make the reservation (it’s time to be a gentleman, damn it), he changes the topic. “What are you ordering?” Yuri starts to skim the menu and _holy shit on a stick,_ what even _is_ some of this garbage? This particular restaurant is apparently above putting pictures on the menu and the descriptions are just like a list of two or three ingredients—no reference to how anything is prepared—so he’s really flying blind here. He can’t even pronounce half of the entrees.

Otabek smiles. “I haven’t even looked yet.” He picks up his own menu to peruse, and Yuri sees his eyes lingering at the wine section. He _better_ not be thinking about drinking without him.

Wait.

Yuri practically bounces in his seat. “Otabek!  You should order a drink and let me have some.”

The response is immediate: “No.”

Of course. Yuri frowns and puffs out his cheeks. “Why not?” he fumes.

“You’re fifteen?”

Yuri rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I was made painfully aware of that when you _ditched me_ for that club.”

Otabek hesitates, and Yuri swears he sees an eye twitch. Yuri leans forward, boring his steely gaze into Otabek, testing him. _Let me have some wine,_ he thinks, trying his hand at telepathic communication. _I just won the Men’s Figure Skating Championship. Treat me like a man._ Otabek doesn’t budge, but when the waitress introduces herself and asks their drink orders, he pauses, not taking his eyes off Yuri.

 _Fine, you asked for it…_ Yuri lowers his chin and sticks out his lower lip in the tiniest of pouts, and he watches Otabek break. Maybe still a teenager. But a damn cute one.

“The house wine,” Otabek sighs. “Red.”

A huge grin breaks across Yuri’s face. “Holy shit.”

Otabek is actually blushing. “Shut up.”

“That was _too_ easy, oh my _God!”_ Yuri laughs.

“You’re pushing it,” he scolds, but there’s no venom in it.

The waitress brings back Yuri’s sparkling water and a glass of deep burgundy wine for Otabek. Yuri eyes the wine while she lists off the specials. He realizes belatedly that he probably should've been listening because he is still completely clueless as to what is and is not edible here and they probably don’t have like...a kids menu he could order something safe from. He feels like he pushed his luck with being a dick while demanding a reservation—if he asks how much of the stuff listed on the menu is real food, he might get them kicked out.

Otabek is ordering like a fucking champ. If there was a competition for restauranting like an adult, Yuri would have to cede his gold medal. He imagines what such a competition would sound like. “Points have been docked from Yuri Plisetsky for pronouncing foie gras as ‘foy grass.’ He has no idea which fork to use! This date is a technical disaster!”

The waitress turns toward him, pen raised over her little notepad. Shiiiiit…

“I’ll have the gourmet macaroni and cheese,” Yuri tells her, feeling like he might as well ask for a booster seat and some crayons while he’s at it. But just in case the macaroni and cheese has weird shit in it, he adds on six or seven other appetizers and two entrees.

Otabek’s eyebrows raise higher with every item Yuri lists.

“Hungry?” he asks lightly as the waitress leaves their table.

“Sort of,” Yuri mumbles, which he knows is not the proper response for someone who just ordered like...a week’s worth of food in appetizers, but it’s better than saying, “I have no idea how much of this is going to be fit for human consumption so I just panicked and got some of everything.”

Whatever. Back to the mission at hand. Once the waitress is out of sight, Yuri practically lunges for Otabek’s wine. Holding the glass with both hands (without an iota of fanciness or decorum, but he’s in a hurry here), he takes a hefty swig and…

 _Immediately_ spits it out. He’ll definitely be billed for the tablecloth, he realizes as he watches the repulsive liquid drip down the once-pristine fabric. “Fuck!” He draws several icy glares from the uptight suits around the room, but he doesn’t care.

Meanwhile, Otabek is barely concealing an amused grin behind his fingers. “So,” he half-laughs, then he has to clear his throat. “What do you think?”

Yuri sloppily wipes the wine off his mouth. “Oh, fuck you,” he growls before he chases the horrible taste with his water.

Still struggling to keep his smile from breaking into a full-blown grin, Otabek says under his breath, “I haven’t ruled it out.”

Yuri’s eyes nearly pop out of his skull because _did he really just fucking say that?_ He spits the water out too, and Otabek laughs out loud this time, a deep happy laugh that chases his own humiliation out of his mind and fills him up with joy, like taking a deep breath after landing a perfect salchow. He reaches slowly for Otabek’s hand and—

The rest of the food arrives. He pretends he’d been reaching for his napkin as he watches plate after plate being loaded onto the table in front of him.

That is the moment when Yuri remembers that the pork cutlet bowl thing was a fluke. Well, not a fluke exactly. Pork cutlet bowls are to die for, so it was more like an exception. Because despite dragging his ass all over the world for competitions, Yuri is _not_ an adventurous eater. And he doesn't recognize a goddamn thing on this table.

He locates the macaroni after several panicked scans of his numerous appetizers and realizes that he didn’t immediately recognize it as macaroni because there’s fucking lobster head in the middle of it—like who the fuck thought _that_ was a good idea? If he had wanted a lobster he wouldn’t have ordered macaroni, he would’ve ordered a lobster. Jesus.

His distaste must be showing in his face because Otabek is giving him a weird look. The way Yuri sees it, he has two options. Send all six of these alien dishes back to the kitchen and get them kicked out of the restaurant for being the biggest diva that ever lived, or do the unthinkable and actually put this shit in his mouth, chew it up and swallow it. The lobster head stares at him with its dead eyes.

 _It must be love,_ Yuri thinks as he spears a forkful of the macaroni. _That’s the only explanation._ There are mysterious green flakes in the cheese—like the lobster head wasn’t enough of a departure from an dish that is perfectly good by itself. If he felt any less strongly about Otabek, he’d have already upended the ruined tablecloth and stormed out screaming. And now he’s sitting here eating the head of a crustacean. For love. Truly, his sacrifice is beyond words.

Otabek makes a mild, pleasant humming noise as he chews, which only serves to remind Yuri that Otabek _knows what the fuck he is doing_ and probably eats like a grownup all the time. Why didn’t Yuri just suggest that they go out for pizza? Or some place that serves fries and chicken nuggets because ugh, these fries are covered in _gravy._ Why?

He is forced to abandon the lobster-macaroni monstrosity after two bites because he’s going to puke all over the tablecloth if he eats any more, and given the fact that he’s already defiled the tablecloth twice, he thinks that might be pushing it. He reaches for the suspicious gravy-covered fries.

Actually...he’s had worse. He prefers fries by themselves but they are certainly not inedible. Hell, he might even be able to finish this dish. Yuri reaches for a second fry.

“You like that one?” Otabek asks.

“Yeah,” Yuri says, and it’s at least a third true. “The gravy fries are pretty good.”

“I used to eat poutine a lot when I was training in Canada,” Otabek tells him. “It’s JJ’s favorite food, so we had it all the time.”

 _JJ’s favorite food._ Yuri feels like his vision whites out for a second at the thought of Otabek sitting in a cafe with fucking JJ, eating pout—no. Gravy fries. Who the _fuck_ puts gravy on fries anyway? Probably the same assholes who put lobster heads in macaroni. And what is this under the gravy—are those cheese curds? No. Never again.

It takes him all of another five seconds to just swear off of food entirely. It’s fine. Food isn’t that great. His appetite is _never_ coming back, not while the image of JJ stuffing his _hideous face_ with that disgrace of a potato dish. WITH OTABEK.

Yeah, no, he can filter feed like a sponge instead. Starting now.

It probably doesn’t take Otabek very long to notice that Yuri just ordered half the menu and then decided not to eat any of it, but it does take him a while to say anything about it.  
“Not as hungry as you thought?”

“I had a big lunch.” It’s a lie. Otabek probably knows it’s a lie. Yuri’s not sure why he even bothered, but Otabek miraculously seems to accept it and continues on with his dinner, while Yuri sits there like a lump and watches him eat. Being a sponge is sounding more and more appealing with every passing minute.

When the check comes, Yuri sees Otabek reach for it, so he lunges across the table like a fucking lunatic, and his elbow lands in something squishy but—ha!

Otabek just blinks at him and then reaches into his back pocket for his wallet. Yuri slams his debit card into the little booklet and clutches the check to his chest.

“I’m paying.” He hopes it doesn’t sound like there’s room for argument.

“Well, for your...meal, sure. But I can—”

“No,” Yuri insists. “I’m paying for yours too.”

“Thank you,” Otabek says, tucking his wallet back into his jeans.

The waitress asks him a question as she is collecting the check. Unfortunately, Yuri is too busy feeling suddenly jealous of Otabek’s wallet for being so close to his ass all day and trying to reconcile the idea of being jealous of a piece of leather to pay attention. Yuri doesn’t even look at the total as he hands it to her.

“Yeah,” he says, not quite sure what he’s agreeing to.

It turns out to be an entire army of to-go boxes, handed to him in three plastic bags, which he now has to cart along with him to the movie theater. Maybe he can just leave them hanging on the handlebars of Otabek’s bike when they go in, and with any luck someone will have stolen them by the time they get out of the movie.

Yuri muscles his way through the crowd of people in front of the theater to grab their tickets from the machine. Otabek snatches one out of his hand and reads the movie title off of it.

“Have you seen any of the ads for this movie? This _horror_ movie?” Otabek asks him, amused. “Can you handle it?”

“Pffft.” Yuri is frankly offended at the insinuation. “Duh. Of course.” Otabek still doesn’t look so sure, a smirk still sitting comfortably on his stupid, sexy face. “I watched a horror movie for fucking breakfast.”

Otabek surrenders and pulls out his damn wallet again. “How much do I—”

“No,” Yuri tells him firmly. Does he seriously still not get it? “I’m paying.”

Otabek appears to be catching on quickly that it’s best not to argue with Yuri once he’s made up his mind.

“Thanks,” he says graciously, once again placing his wallet back in his pocket. Yuri is starting to think he might be developing an unnatural fascination with that particular action—Otabek’s casual grace and...actually, maybe this is about his ass. That makes more sense. Probably best not to overthink it.

Tickets in hand, they head toward the concession stand and, despite the fact that they just spent an hour in The Best Restaurant in Barcelona (at least according to Siri, which Yuri has decided never to trust again), he is _starving_.

“Are you actually going to eat any of that?” Otabek asks when Yuri buys a large popcorn, Milk Duds, an Icee with _every flavor,_ and a questionable-looking hotdog.

“I’m going to eat _all_ of this _,”_ Yuri says. “In about thirty seconds _._ As soon as we sit down _.”_

They find their seats. Otabek moves to push the armrest between them down and before Yuri can even think about it, he backhands it into the upright position. The corners of Otabek’s mouth turn up very slightly, but he doesn’t say anything about it.

Yuri has polished off the hotdog and half his Icee by the time the previews are over, so he settles in comfortably, popcorn nestled in his lap, to enjoy the movie.

So...Yuri has definitely watched horror movies before. Several, in fact. He’s not like a connoisseur of horror movies, but he’s seen The Ring, The Omen, The Texas Chainsaw Massacre, and Nightmare on Elm Street, so he had been feeling pretty confident that he knew what he was in for, and it wasn’t this.

This fucking ghost or poltergeist or some shit--whatever the fuck it is--keeps popping out of nowhere over and over in this creepy-ass old house and scaring the shit out of the dumbfuck family that moved in. Yuri has absolutely heard rustling noises _exactly_ like the ones this... _thing_ is making before. His grandpa lives in an old house and Yuri believes to his very core that it is _totally_ haunted, and up until now he was pretty confident that the spirits living there were harmless, but he’s second guessing himself as he watches the kid being dragged screaming under his bed by a thousand tiny hands.

Well, the next time he stays with his grandpa he is for sure pouring salt all around his bed before he goes to sleep, and hanging garlic up in the windows and...he’s gonna have to do some more research about what keeps whatever-the-fuck-it-is out of—

JESUS CHRIST.

A hideous, bug-eyed doll jumps out with a horrific screech, and the next thing Yuri knows, he’s being held tightly in Otabek’s arms. He realizes two things in the following moments:

One, he got so fucking _spooked_ that he launched himself straight into Otabek’s lap. And two, Yuri absolutely needs to die. Immediately. Nothing could be more embarrassing than this.  

Otabek doesn’t ask Yuri what he’s doing in his lap, or make fun of him for being a total bitch-ass wimp—in fact, he just squeezes Yuri tight and doesn’t let go, _oh my God._

Yuri literally spends the rest of the goddamn movie sitting in Otabek’s fucking lap because he’s too mortified to move or ask Otabek to let go of him so he can melt into the floor in peace. It’s...well, it’s not bad. Otabek has really strong arms and muscular thighs and Yuri finds himself resting his head against Otabek’s shoulder. He hates to admit it, but the idea of killer ghosts feels a little less scary with Otabek’s arms wrapped around him like this.

He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t a little disappointed when the movie ends. Not because it was actually good—Yuri has now decided that this is the campiest, most ridiculous thing he’s ever seen and that only a moron could possibly get scared during a movie like this. He’s still going to exorcise his grandpa’s house the second he gets back to Russia though; just because the movie was stupid doesn’t mean there’s any reason to go being careless about the supernatural. He’s not _scared_ though. No, he’s in Otabek’s lap because it’s comfortable and uh...because this is what people on dates do? Probably. Yuri assumes.

Anyway, Yuri is jerked abruptly out of the little cocoon of comfort he’s made for himself in Otabek’s embrace by,

“So uh, should we go?”

Nope, Yuri thinks. We should stay right here. But then he realizes that even the credits have ended and Otabek has probably been wondering when this crazy bitch is going to get off his lap. Shit.

Yuri scrambles— _excuse him—_ rises gracefully to his feet and strides toward the exit in the hopes that Otabek won’t get a good enough look at his face to see how deeply he’s blushing.

Yuri’s food is still hanging off of the handles of Otabek’s bike when they get outside. Damn.

“Back to the hotel?” Otabek asks, fishing his keys out of his pocket. Yuri nods, unable to speak because he has suddenly realized that he hasn’t actually planned this far ahead and he has no fucking clue what to do when they get back to the hotel.

He knows what he _wants_ to do—at least he thinks he does. He fastens his helmet and swings a leg over the back of the bike, holding tightly to Otabek’s waist again and feeling his abs under the fabric of his shirt. No, he definitely knows what he wants.

But fuck him if he knows how to make it happen. Yuri spends the drive frantically wracking his brain for any points of reference—how do you tell someone you want to get all up and naked with them without sounding like a desperate little creep?

What would Viktor do? Wait no—he knows what Viktor would do. Flush his entire career down the toilet and move across the world for a random piece of ass he met at a party once.

Okay no. Who else? What would Katsudon do? Probably cry. Loser. Actually, Yuri is feeling a little jealous of Katsudon at the moment—the man of his dreams literally showed up at his house begging him to sleep with him and Yuri is pretty sure Katsudon would’ve died a virgin if that hadn’t happened because he’s doesn’t have a fucking spine, and would never have managed to land a date otherwise.

Well, Yuri had a fucking date. They went to dinner and then they went to a movie. If that’s not a date, Yuri doesn’t know what is. So he’s been romantic _as fuck_ , as romantic as he knows how to be, and if Otabek still doesn’t know what he wants then Yuri is going to have to face the fact that he’s fallen for a gorgeous idiot and—

Yuri is startled when Otabek cuts the engine. He hadn’t even realized they’d reached the hotel. Yuri lets go of Otabek and hands him the helmet on autopilot, stands awkwardly to the side as Otabek takes off his own helmet, parks the bike...

Oh, and hands Yuri his bags of takeout. He can’t fit all the handles in one hand so he settles for looking like a tool with bags hanging from each arm.

“What floor are you on?” Otabek asks. Yuri’s heart leaps into his throat, though he tells himself he shouldn’t get so excited because maybe Otabek is just planning on walking him to his room like an old school gentleman and leaving him to ~~masturbate furiously for the rest of the evening~~ drop to the floor on the other side of the door and sigh like a girl who _just had the most magical night ever at the prom._

Yuri considers it a legitimate goddamn miracle that they do not encounter anyone else on their way to his room. Their chances of running into Viktor or the piggy— _or worse, JJ—_ are not that low, they’re all staying at the same hotel, after all. And then Yuri looks at his phone while they’re waiting for the elevator and realizes they’re actually probably not going to run into anybody. Who else is going to be roaming the halls of the hotel at one in the morning?

Not Viktor and Katsudon. Those old men probably took out their dentures and went to bed hours ago. Yuri smirks to himself at the thought that he and Otabek could probably just wander around the hotel uninterrupted until morning.

And then the doors open to his floor, and Otabek steps out of the elevator with him. And then they’re in front of his room looking awkwardly at each other for what feels like ten million years. _Look asshole,_ Yuri thinks, trying his hand at telepathic communication one more time while his face gets redder and redder, _the dinner thing? That was me. The movie? I did that too. You’re going to have to make a move sometime, I can’t keep fucking always—_

“I had a good time,” Otabek tells him.

“Okay,” says Yuri. _And???_

“Thank you for dinner and the movie,” Otabek says. “I’ll...see you soon.”

For the first time, Otabek looks a little awkward and unsure, like he doesn’t know what to do with himself. He settles for leaning over and kissing Yuri quickly on the cheek—like he’s getting it over with—before backing up and half waving.

Yuri gets his keycard out of his pocket numbly and lets himself into his room, shutting the door behind him. He lets the bags of horrible food slide off his arms and into the trash can by the door and kicks his shoes off.

What the fuck was he even thinking, taking Otabek out on a date? Otabek is the coolest person he’s ever met. He probably just went out with Yuri because he felt _sorry for him_ , the poor little kid who—

Before Yuri really has time to get started on the pity party he’s about to throw himself, there’s a knock on the door right behind him. He turns around and opens it, heart hammering.

“Can I come—” Otabek starts, taking a step over the threshold of Yuri’s door.

Yuri fucking loses it. He doesn’t even manage to answer—just launches himself at Otabek like he jumped off a fucking springboard and Otabek—that cool-ass motherfucker—catches him in midair, lets him wrap his legs around his waist. Yuri leans in and— _wow, classy—_ basically sticks his tongue down Otabek’s throat in one motion. How is _this_ for a first kiss, huh? Eat that, Katsudon.

Otabek, unwavering under Yuri’s weight because he’s probably an actual god, walks them a couple steps into the room and shuts the door behind them with his foot. He then leans back against the door as he hoists Yuri a little higher and tighter in his arms and kisses back, lips sliding against Yuri’s a lot more skillfully and gently than Yuri did to him.

He tries to back down and match Otabek’s pacing and he actually thinks he gets the hang of it for awhile—trading soft brushes of lips and slow, deep licks—until he realizes that the rest of his entire body is not doing _anything_ soft or slow—he’s balled the fabric of Otabek’s shirt into both fists, his legs are wrapped in a death grip around Otabek’s waist, and _oh God_ he’s actually grinding against Otabek’s dick. He’s not sure who he thinks he’s fooling with the sweet kisses—Yuri is nothing if not intense and goal-oriented; and also he apparently can’t control both his mouth and the rest of his body at the same time.

He should’ve realized it wouldn’t be any different from when he manages to bite back an insult and then hurls his phone at the wall. It’s the mouth or...everything else. Words or kisses, it doesn’t matter.

To Yuri’s general astonishment, Otabek does not seem to mind what he’s doing _at all._ In fact, he’s satisfyingly and noticeably hard, pushing back against Yuri with stunted movements of his hips, but that’s really all he can do in this standing position. Otabek is strong for sure, but he can’t keep this up forever, not if they’re going to…

“Bed,” Yuri whispers against his mouth, and Otabek is across the room in a flash— _now who’s eager?—_ depositing Yuri on top of the comforter and moving to hover over him in one smooth motion, planting a knee on either side of Yuri’s hips and bringing his lips back to Yuri’s. Yuri shoves at Otabek’s jacket with both hands, and Otabek sheds it efficiently without breaking their kiss.

He considers sliding his hands under Otabek’s shirt to feel those abs for himself, but there is a pressing problem he has to address first. Specifically, the problem of his dick _pressing_ against the inside of his leather pants, which are not forgiving and it’s getting legitimately painful at this point to be this hard in these pants. He snakes his hands down in between them as stealthily as possible to at least relieve some pressure by unfastening them, but Otabek catches him and stops their kissing to look down between them at Yuri’s hand as he unzips.

Fuck it. Yuri lifts his hips and shimmies out of his pants entirely. He leaves his underwear on because he’s not entirely sure how far they’re planning on going with this, but it’s probably best to err on the side of not being the only person getting naked. Although, Otabek’s immediate response is to lose his shirt, so...

Yuri was probably going somewhere with that thought, but he’s immediately distracted by Otabek’s un-fucking-believable pecs and abs and the fact that Otabek is letting Yuri trace the outline of his muscles with his fingertips. Otabek could easily be making snarky comments about the fact that Yuri so obviously has never touched another shirtless guy but he’s not. He just lets Yuri explore, lets him move at his own pace, rocking his hips softly until Yuri reaches the intriguing trail of hair leading down to the waistband of Otabek’s jeans. He looks Otabek in the eye and pops open the button.

Apparently that was some sort of cue that Otabek had been waiting for, because he removes his hand that had been stroking Yuri’s hair (Yuri had not noticed that it was happening at the time, but immediately misses it as soon as it’s _not_ happening anymore), rolls off of Yuri onto his back, and starts kicking off his pants. He’s still completely dressed below the waist, however, and there’s a moment where Otabek breaks his perfect record of 100% badass awesomeness to do this awkward little shoe-sock-pants removal routine as quickly as possible. Instead of being unsexy, it’s actually kind of reassuring that nobody, not even the Hero of Kazakhstan, can keep up that level of coolness forever. Otabek leaves his underwear on—whether because he wants to or because he thinks that’s what Yuri wants, Yuri’s not sure—but now Yuri’s putting him right back on the fucking pedestal because the outline of his dick is completely visible through his underwear and Yuri wants the image of it tattooed on the inside of his eyelids because only Otabek can make plain black boxer-briefs look _that sexy._

Otabek probably had every intention of getting back on top of Yuri, but _apparently_ that's not on the agenda anymore because Yuri—now at the utter mercy of the hormones coursing through his body—rips his own shirt over his head, flips over and _pounces_ on him. Yuri’s _plan_ had been to position himself over Otabek’s hips just as Otabek had done to him, but one knee lands too close so now he's just straddling Otabek’s thigh, but he decides to play it off like that's what he meant to do and goes back to focusing all his energy on kissing Otabek as thoroughly as possible and memorizing the feel of Otabek’s abs under his fingers.

Then _,_ almost by accident, he brushes his dick against Otabek’s thigh and _oh my GOD that's so good._ He basically has no choice but to do it again. _Ugh, even better._ Just one more.

“Just one more” becomes Yuri’s motto for at least thirty seconds before he's willing to admit to himself that he's just going to go ahead and rub himself on Otabek’s thigh for the foreseeable future. Otabek, to his credit, has not called him out on this or done anything beyond kiss him back, so it startles Yuri when he eventually circles his hand around one of Yuri’s wrists and guides it down like, _okay, enough with the abs,_ and it's not like Yuri isn't intrigued—well, okay— _obsessed_ with what's below the abs, so he happily obliges and places his whole hand over Otabek’s dick.

 _Jesus Christ,_ Yuri thinks, trying to get a grip—literally, because _seeing_ the outline of Otabek’s dick did not prepare him adequately for how it would feel in his palm—not enormous or anything, just very _solid—_ and now it's like he's forgotten how dicks work, despite the fact that his own is certainly doing all the thinking for him at the moment. Otabek is warm, Yuri can feel it even through his underwear, and he's still not sure if he's allowed to reach under the waistband so he settles with just using his hand over the fabric. Otabek offers a quiet groan when he speeds up—and the fact that Otabek is enjoying what Yuri is doing to him feels _amazing,_ like physically amazing—and he feels like everything is going really well. At some point, Otabek will probably indicate somehow that they should move on to nakedness or flip them over and take charge, which will be awesome. Until then, Yuri will just keep up the little love affair he's having with Otabek’s leg and—

_SHIIIIIIIT._

The switch between “ _this_ _feels_ _good”_ and “ _I'm_ _going_ _to_ _actually come_ _from_ _this_ ” happens more gradually than Yuri is willing to admit, because _that_ would be acknowledging the fact that he _knew_ it was happening and _chose_ to ignore it. But that’s irrelevant now because here he is, teetering dangerously on the edge of falling apart _in his underwear_ with Otabek still bucking up into his hand like he could do this all day. Where's Yuri’s stamina now, huh? _World Champion, my ass,_ Yuri thinks, but he also doesn't _stop._

And a few seconds too late, he realizes he _can't_ stop—or he could, but it wouldn't make a difference because he's _absolutely going to come no matter what_ and he uses his last coherent thought before his brain melts out of his ears to bury his face in Otabek’s neck and start _sucking._

Belatedly, Yuri realizes that he probably should've removed his hand from Otabek’s dick _before,_ but the universe must be on Yuri’s side today because instead of accidentally maiming Otabek with his nails, he manages to keep stroking him in time with the pulsing of his own orgasm. Otabek makes another noise—one that Yuri can guarantee he’ll be jerking off to for _years,_ and then Yuri has to stop because his entire body has turned to jelly, and he flops uselessly on top of Otabek.

The embarrassment hits a few seconds after—right about when the the warm, sated feeling usually arrives—so instead of feeling relaxed, he tenses and removes his mouth from Otabek’s neck and _oh God why did he think it would be sexy to create a vacuum suction on Otabek’s poor neck? Does Yuri have a deep and secret desire to become a plunger?_

When he cracks open an eye to assess the damage, he discovers he has once again gotten lucky—Otabek’s neck looks no worse for wear, and the faint pinkness will undoubtedly fade by tomorrow.

But all of this is _nothing_ in the face of the reality that he just came in his underwear by grinding on Otabek’s leg and there's no way Otabek doesn't realize it. Yuri considers the relative merits of throwing himself out the window to the pavement below, but then it occurs to him that not just Otabek but _the rest of the world_ would know what went down. New headline: _World Figure Skating Champion Yuri Plisetsky Plunges to His Death After Grinding on His Crush Until He Came in His Pants._

It takes Yuri a second to react when he feels Otabek shift below him, and then Otabek is stroking his fingers through Yuri’s hair and Yuri remembers that he stopped touching Otabek as soon as _he_ came—which, _rude—_ so he pulls his sorry ass together and tries to sit up.

“Let me—” he says, getting ready to start up again with his hand.

“I'm good,” Otabek pants, shaking his head.

“No way,” Yuri replies, frowning. “If I’m getting off, then you are too.”

“No,” says Otabek. “I mean I’m _good.”_

Yuri’s sluggish brain catches up when he actually plants his hand on Otabek’s crotch and the fabric _glides_ under his skin. Oh. _Oh._ _Ohhh yeah, motherfucker._

Yuri’s humiliation evaporates, unlike the stickiness in his underwear, which is probably here to stay. Because Otabek is the actual coolest person on the planet, the fact that _he_ came in his pants elevates the status of sitting around in sticky underwear to the _height_ of awesomeness. Otabek is staring up at Yuri like he can’t believe _he_ got so lucky—like he can’t believe _Yuri_ just...whatevered with _him_. Which is ridiculous, but Yuri’s not going to try to correct him. _That’s right Otabek, Yuri fucking Plisetsky just got mostly naked with you, fucking bask in it._ JJ only _wishes_ he could be this amazing.

The thing is though...instead of basking in the afterglow of sex (or...whatever this was. Something sex-adjacent) with Otabek, Yuri is starting to get _angry._ Not that it’s an unfamiliar feeling to him, angry is kind of his default state and probably the emotion he’s most comfortable wearing on his sleeve, but he’s actually angry _at_ Otabek and oh shit, words are going to start coming out of his mouth about it—

“Why the fuck did you let me think we were just friends?” Yuri says. It comes out about three bars louder than would be appropriate for where they are and what they just did but _this is what you signed up for, Otabek. This is what you get instead of pillow talk when you hook up with Yuri Plisetsky._

“I did?” Otabek asks. He looks up in confusion at Yuri, who can feel his face turning red.

“Uh, yeah?” Yuri tells him. “What was that ‘you’re my best friend’ bullshit after the exhibition?”

“You are my best friend,” says Otabek, like he seriously doesn’t get it. Yuri was absolutely right. He _is_ a gorgeous idiot.

“Is this what you usually do with your best friends?” Yuri says, gesturing down at their laps.

“Of course not.”

Yuri blinks. God, it’s like trying to get a straight answer out of a deaf-mute version of Viktor. “Okay, so excuse the shit out of me for having _no idea_ what the hell you’re saying,” Yuri says, trying not to let the almost-smile forming on Otabek’s face distract him. “I’m your best friend,” he continues. “And we just—” he vaguely gestures-slash-flails again, “but you _just said_ you don’t do that with your best friends. “So…” Yuri huffs, and he hates himself for the fact that he’s about to ask such a bullshit, teen-movie question. “What are we!?”

Otabek shifts in response, propping himself up on his elbow and boring his steely gaze into Yuri’s very _soul._ Wow. It would be unsettling if it wasn’t so hot. Unblinking, he asks Yuri, “What do you want me to be to you?”

Yuri’s brain short-circuits and does a complete factory reset. This must be what it’s like the moment right before you die, he thinks. And then he remembers Otabek is waiting on a response.

 _BOYFRIEND!_ his mind shouts at him. _SAY IT. You want anything, everything, just don’t_ fuck _this up._

He realizes belatedly that he’s spent too long mulling it over, and Otabek helps him along. “Do you want more than friendship?” Otabek asks.

The question startles a laugh out of Yuri. “I think we’re fucking past that by now.”

“I need you to tell me,” Otabek presses. His eyes are serious, but there’s something behind them that Yuri can’t quite place. Fear? Okay, no pressure, this is just the most important answer Yuri has ever had and will ever have to give, and even Otabek is a little freaked out by it. Great.

Instinctively, Yuri wants to keep pushing Otabek to keep from having to answer. He wants to demand _why_ Yuri has to be the one to say what he wants, why Otabek won’t just be his damn boyfriend without the need for this whole uncomfortable conversation. In the moment, the innate self-preserving part of him wants to push Otabek to the point of breaking or just giving up, but that scenario does not end with him leaving the hotel with a boyfriend.

Fuck, it’s up to him to tell Otabek then.  

“Boyfriend,” Yuri exhales.

Brilliant. Well, he got the word out at least. He can stick a fork in an outlet later.

Otabek leans forward, just barely, brows drawn together. “Hm?”

Of _course_ he has to say it again, as if once wasn’t fucking embarrassing enough. Fine. Yuri takes a deep breath and looks him right in the eye and says, “Be my fucking boyfriend.” That’s better.

A wide grin spreads across Otabek’s face, and Yuri thinks the lights must have gotten brighter in the room. Nope, Otabek’s smile is just frickin’ magical.  

Yuri can’t help but return the expression, and the next thing he knows, he’s being pulled down into a kiss. “I’ve been wanting to hear you say that,” Otabek says against his lips.  

Relieved, Yuri flops back down onto the bed, facing Otabek. Holy shit.

 _Holy shit._ Otabek wants to be Yuri’s boyfriend. 

Wait. 

He punches Otabek in the arm, but not hard. “What do you mean you’ve been wanting to hear me say that!?” Did this asshole seriously already have feelings for him and not do anything about it? “You liked me and didn’t say anything?”

“Well, yes,” Otabek admits sheepishly.

“Are you kidding me?” He should just wring Otabek’s neck right now. “Why didn’t you just kiss me or something? I can’t even count how many signals I must have given you.”

Otabek snorts. “Seriously? I didn’t want to push a relationship or anything on you. I was afraid you might flip out.”

Yuri scoffs. “When have I ever done that!?”

“Didn’t you kick down a door because Katsuki was crying or something?”

Oh, yikes. Where did Otabek hear about that, anyway? “Okay, first of all, that’s not what happened,” Yuri defends, and Otabek is smiling again. “Second of all, he deserved it.”

“Mm, I’m sure.” Otabek plants another kiss on his lips, and Yuri is overcome by a warm feeling in the depths of his stomach. He relishes in the unfamiliar sensation for a while, but it is soon replaced with an echo of dread. He remains uncharacteristically quiet for a minute before Otabek catches on and nudges Yuri’s shoulder. “Hey. You okay?”

Yuri sighs dejectedly and meets Otabek’s concerned gaze. “We’re leaving Barcelona tomorrow…” They’ve _just_ become boyfriends and now they’re probably never going to see each other again. They’re going to part ways at the airport and that’ll be that. Yuri knows deep down that he’s being a tiny little bit overdramatic, because honestly—they travel within a pretty small circle and will undoubtedly be in the same place at the same time as often as not next season. However, in the moment, he feels really ridiculously attached to Otabek, and the fact that they are about to be separated for _any_ length of time feels like a cause for despair.

But Otabek doesn’t appear to be fazed by the concept. “So, what, you think we won’t speak again until Worlds next year?” Yuri purses his lips and says nothing. “You have a phone, and I know you do because you’re never _not_ on it.” Otabek smiles and brushes a stray strand of hair out of Yuri’s eyes with his thumb. “And I may not be on Instagram every second of the day, but yes, I also have a phone. We _will_ stay in touch.”

Yuri chews the inside of his cheek. “We will?”

“Promise.” The idea should make Yuri feel better, but it doesn’t, not really. Until Otabek adds, “And obviously I’ll come visit you whenever I can.”

Yuri lights up at once. “I am going to bring you to Japan and shove katsudon _down your throat,”_ he mock-threatens.  

“I hope you’re talking about the dish and not Katsuki,” Otabek says, eyes narrowed. But he’s still smiling.

Yuri wrinkles his nose at the mental image. “Ugh. Obviously.”

“I can’t wait,” Otabek says warmly. 

“Yeah,” Yuri agrees. “Can’t wait.”

“And now that we have that established,” says Otabek, pushing himself up off the bed, “I’m going to go wash up.”

Yuri shifts and almost jumps out of his skin in disgust because _ew ew ew,_ he’s let it sit for too long and now he’s cold and sticky. He barely suppresses a shudder but well, Otabek’s gone and hogged the bathroom so Yuri just reaches for the box of tissues on the bedside table and tries to wipe out the inside of his underwear.

Nope, he decides a moment later. They’re a lost cause. He makes to throw them into the trash in the hotel but hesitates when he imagines the staff cleaning up the room and finding them. _Then_ he imagines what will happen when he gets home and Lilia takes his laundry out of his suitcase and _dear God, no._ Yuri buries them in the trash under one of the takeout containers then pulls on a fresh pair from his suitcase.

“Yuri?” Otabek’s voice floats in from the bathroom.

“Da?”

“Um…” Otabek comes out with a towel around his waist, reaching for his discarded jeans. “I’m going to have to—”

Oh _hell no._ Yuri knows what he’s about to say. He’s going to say he needs to go back to his room and change and then he’s going to spend the night there, and is Yuri going to have to break his legs to get him to stay? He thinks there’s a horror book or movie or some shit where that happens.

And that makes Yuri think about the horror movie they just saw, and suddenly sleeping alone becomes that much less appealing. Before he can even think about it, he’s reaching into his suitcase and flinging another clean pair of boxer-briefs in Otabek’s direction.

“Here,” he says. “Wear these. Stay.” Yes. Forget eloquence, forget meaningful. Just throw things at him and then bark out orders, boyfriends love that shit. Otabek catches the underwear and makes only the tiniest grimace at the _very subtle and understated_ leopard print, but to his credit he does not argue and takes them into the bathroom to change. Score one more for Yuri.

They’re a smidgen too small, but instead of complaining about the fabric riding up his ass, Otabek graciously thanks Yuri for the loan of them and flops back down on the bed. He raises his eyebrows at Yuri like... _you gonna get in bed or what?_

Yuri lies down next to him stiffly and glares at Otabek out of the corner of his eye because he has had to do fucking everything tonight and it is Otabek’s goddamn turn.

“Come here,” Otabek finally says softly, and then he turns and gathers Yuri in his arms, and Yuri just fucking _melts_ into his embrace. He curls up with his back to Otabek’s chest as his mind stops its raging and quiets, and he drifts off to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!  
> tumblrs: mischiefxmanager.tumblr.com & plishitsky.tumblr.com


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